


since feeling is first

by royal_chandler



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kid with eyes older than his years walks into Erik's parlor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	since feeling is first

**Author's Note:**

> Let's not even talk about my tattoo knowledge. I wrote this on my lunch break today because of [this](http://spoonfulofcinnasugar.tumblr.com/post/110076855396) gifset of bb!McAvoy. This really isn't my fault.
> 
> Title belongs to ee cummings.

The kid walks into tattoo parlor and Erik opens his mouth to kick him out, because it’s late and his shop is closing in thirty minutes. Erik doesn’t feel like explaining the law to this boy who is clearly underage and has half his hair swept in front of his face as though he can’t stand to see the world as a whole. The newcomer’s dressed in an expensive suit and tie, and Erik considers that the kid might be drunk, the way he's standing on unsteady feet. 

Erik’s not in the mood to babysit but he reluctantly accepts the fact that he may have to put the kid in a taxi after he’s done yelling at him.

However, his mouth clamps shut when he catches sight of the most unnaturally blue eyes he’s ever seen, shining and red-rimmed, full of grief.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re about to close,” says a broken voice. English. Watered. So pained that it Erik believes the hurt to be his own. “However, I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me a tattoo. I have money.”

"It's not money I'm worried about," Erik tells him.

The kid's chin doesn't become any less defiant and Erik doesn’t know what possesses him but he gathers tools that he’d just put away, motions for the pneumatic tattoo machine to start. He nods to the nearest seat but the kid doesn’t move, clearly still uncertain.

“Might be easier if you’re sitting down for this,” Erik says, testing and his impatience returning.

The kid doesn’t reply but he finally moves and Erik can’t smell any alcohol on him, which is only mildly encouraging. The boy is like a stiff board in the station chair.

Erik rolls his eyes, taking a seat at his side. “Fuck, how old are you? Relax or it’ll hurt a lot worse than you’re expecting.”

“I’ll be eighteen in four months and I can handle it, I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” he says, in a register that is noticeably stronger, but he does as instructed. He yanks out the knot of his tie, strips out of his jacket and unbuttons his shirt to reveal smooth, pale skin.

Erik swallows hard, reminds himself that there’s a nearly a nine year difference here, and that this kid obviously has issues. Resolved, he asks, “Where do you want it?” 

The kid points under his left collarbone. “Here. Is that alright?”

Erik huffs and silently calls for his metallic pen, gets ready to scribe some numb-minded sentimentality. “You’re hardly the first person to ever get a tattoo over their heart. I should warn you that people your age usually regret getting their lover’s name inked on their skin.”

The brilliant blue gaze flicks to him, stubborn and dark. “Then I have nothing to worry about, yeah?”

“What are you looking to get?” Erik asks, with more meaning than he intends.

And then the kid— _Charles_ —is inside of his head, sharp and bright, broadcasting an image of a genetic sequence that gorgeously curves into _hope_. The word is an elegant architecture that Erik can’t find it in himself to mock.

“You’ll need to take off your shirt entirely,” he replies instead.

Along Charles' arm, the pale and freckled skin is interrupted by bruises. The shape of large fingers imprinted in a deep color.

There’s a dare in Charles’ eyes.

Dryly, Erik counters, “At least I don’t have to worry about you telling anyone that I gave you a tattoo illegally.”

…

Charles comes back two weeks later in a school uniform. His hair is still a mess but he doesn’t look like he’s been crying, and god, Erik doesn’t even know why he cares but it’s much better.

Focusing back on his current client, he shakes his head. “What? They don’t teach common courtesy at your private school? Most people set up appointments. And that’s just me assuming that you can’t actually read the sign right next to the door.”

With a laugh that says he absolutely doesn’t give a shit, Charles swings his messenger bag over his head and just plops down in one of the plastic chairs lining the side wall.

…

Erik checks over the tattoo carefully. There’s no sign of infection. The traces of healthy pink are still fading but the raised markings look darker now, indecent on flesh that is soft under Erik’s touch. 

It’s healing perfectly. He tells Charles as much. 

Nodding, Charles asks, “When can I get another one?”

His excited tone is so young that Erik flinches away from him, has to remember himself. “When you're 18,” Erik tells him, keeping a professional distance. “In any parlor in the city.”

“Really, Erik,” Charles sighs. Here he’s chiding, a shade of Erik’s mother, and it’s incredibly disturbing. “Can we please speed past your disapproval? I have a paper for chemistry and it’s not my strongest subject.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” says Erik and, despite his reservations, he tells Charles to return in a month.

…

This time it’s a T.H. White line that Charles gets on his side between his ribs. The skin there is more sensitive and he hisses in accompaniment to the buzz of the tattoo gun.

 _We cannot build the future by avenging the past._

Erik pauses and the reprieve is enough to draw Charles’ attention. Pointing to his temple, Erik says, “Talk to me. That paper, how’d you end up doing?”

Surprise flashes across Charles’ face and he has a smile that is all too charming. He begins and in no time he’s on about magnetization and how Erik’s powers work. He’s chatty, Erik realizes but he doesn’t mind.

…

“Is this your teenage rebellion?” Erik taps the ash off the edge of his cigarette. It’s his lunch break on a weekday and Charles has decided to play hooky. Erik has to question his mental state because who chooses to run off to a tattoo parlor of all places? And on a day when the sun’s in hiding and if not for the sewers, the city would be drowning.

Charles blows out a smokey ‘o’, watches it dissipate. Smartly, “Wouldn’t someone have to care for it to qualify as a rebellion?”

…

Charles becomes a regular fixture in the parlor. He doesn’t ask for anymore tattoos but he inquires about them, how Erik came to own the place. Erik tells him about a child abuse court case against a man named Shaw and Charles speaks about his mother in the past tense even though she’s not dead. They have more in common than Erik’s comfortable with but their arguments are hardly anymore safe. They get passionate over politics and mutant rights, their different perspectives on literature and art. They’re halfway through Erik’s copy of _The Painted Word_ , a treasure that he’s never shared with anyone, and the conversations are always enlightening and sparking.

All of it terrifies him because this kid, so fucking _young_ , is placing something warm and real in his chest, a permanence underneath his skin.

…

Erik sinks into a crouch and tenderly presses a bag of frozen peas to Charles’ face. He has to fight to keep his hand steady, the fury running through him so dangerous. “You know that I’d kill him, don’t you?”

“Yes. Even though I wish you were joking. It’s not worth it,” Charles says. His attempt at a smile results in a wince. “Soon enough, I’ll be of age with a trust fund and I’ll never have to see Sharon or Kurt again. Let’s not borrow trouble, alright?”

Feeling reckless and more in love than he ever knew he could be, Erik sends earnestly, _I care about you._

Charles’ hand comes to rest over his. _Then wait for me._

…

“There are a pair of yellow eyes trained on me and burning holes through my forehead,” Erik says. He tucks his gloved hands in his leather jacket so he won’t reach for Charles’. “Friend of yours?”

Charles looks behind his shoulder and waves happily. He turns back to Erik. “That’s Raven. She finds this whole situation a bit odd but she means well.”

Doubtful, Erik replies, “Uh huh.” He backtracks farther and farther away from the school’s gate. 

Charles rolls his eyes and catches up to him. He commandeers one of Erik’s hand out of his pockets and holds on when they're away from the student population, look like any other couple on the street. “She commends your work,” Charles reveals after a while.

Erik cocks an eyebrow, interested. “You’ve shown her your tattoos?”

Charles shrugs and waves his free hand again, expansively. “She’s my best friend.”

“So I should get used to the death glares,” Erik concludes with a groan, feigning defeat.

“My poor baby,” Charles coos. “Let’s get some pumpkin flavored caffeine in you before that frown becomes stuck.”

…

Charles’ birthday is celebrated by renting a moving van. Erik and Raven—who shifts into Erik’s clone just to fuck with him—help Charles unpack his things in his new postage stamp—“I think that it would’ve been a better idea for you to live in one of these boxes,” Erik had commented—apartment and then the three of them devour a store bought chocolate cake.

It’s late when he and Charles are finally alone, lying flat on Charles’ bed. They’re in no hurry for this, both of them wanting to intimately know and store every moment that leads up to it.

Erik strokes the bare skin above the drawn string of Charles’ pajamas with his heart in his throat. Charles’ long hair is fanned over his eyelashes and the picture jerks Erik back to that first day. “Are you happy?”

“Happier than I can ever remember,” Charles admits. A reassuring and warm press of lips is their first kiss. Slick and deep is their second. Thorough and wanting is their third and after that, Erik’s too dizzy due to the travel his need has made from the depths of him, shooting up quick like a drug.

…

Years later and well past the third time, Charles is in Erik’s chair.

“I should warn you that people your age usually regret getting their lover’s name inked on their skin,” Erik delivers, amused more than anything.

“Then I have nothing to worry about, yeah?” Charles echoes. He waggles his left ring finger that's soon to decorated. “Since it won’t be your name.”

Erik turns on the machine without disconnecting their gaze. “It’s practically the same thing.”

“Not quite.” Charles' tone leaves no room to misinterpret what he thinks of that. 

Erik leans in and brushes his lips over the shell of Charles’ ear. Fondly, “Age has made you a tightwad.”

Charles’ laugh rings in the parlor. Then he’s giving Erik the lecture on genetic diversity that he’d given his nine-thirty class while Erik inks another tattoo on to his skin, marking Charles up the same that Charles has done to him.


End file.
